Eric watched as they first entered the Puppet Hall—a courtyard reserved for performance puppets within the village. She saw the village chief place the puppets submitted by the players inside.
Moments later, the players emerged.
After a single trip in and out, Eric noticed a transformation as if they had been utterly reborn. Their backs, their gaits, even the angles and arcs with which their arms swung, had become rigid and uniform. Regardless of gender, height, or build, their every step and movement mirrored one another with eerie precision.
Like puppets suspended by invisible strings, they each entered one of the dozen rooms scattered throughout the village—and never came out again.
The four of them exchanged glances. Gavin said, "We'll know the truth tomorrow. At the final hour, let's not stir up any more trouble." He turned and left first.
Back in the deserted old courtyard, the emptiness of the room chilled Eric to the bone.
"What do you think it means?" Brielle asked, unwilling to voice her own terrifying guess.
Eric found herself unable to answer—it was simply too cruel to say aloud.
"We'll know at dawn," Ximena replied.
As the first rays of sunlight touched the earth, Wooden Puppet Village stirred. For the first time, Eric saw such a gathering of villagers. The ox carts were piled high with luggage, and tools for the performance filled six carts. The players were assigned one, and slowly they began their bumpy descent down the mountain.
"Goodbye!"
"Come back soon!"
The villagers left behind waved cheerfully, among them child-sized versions of Kay, Aurora, and other players. They smiled with the same innocent, warm welcome that Niuniu, the daughter of the mountains, once gave them.
But those smiles sent an icy shiver through Eric's entire being.
As the ox carts drew away from the village, Eric couldn't tear her eyes from the receding scene. Of all the players, only she, Ximena, Brielle, and Gavin had left. The others would remain in Wooden Puppet Village—forever.
A dreadful thought crept into her mind: was this how the village expanded its population?
Perhaps even the chief's body once belonged to a player. And after countless resets of the instance, would Aurora and the others' bodies grow, age, and eventually become the "elders" of the village?
The road down the mountain twisted and turned. Departing early in the morning, they didn't reach the foot until noon. By the time they entered the town, it was afternoon.
Tents were erected. Preparations made. The true performance would begin at night.
Bright lights illuminated the plaza. Townsfolk gathered with folding chairs in hand, pressing close together in eager anticipation.
Eric and the others were seated at prime spots near the front.
This batch of puppets was unlike any other—they were "ensouled," moving freely on stage without the need for strings. Among them were the very puppets the players had handed over—some as background, some in supporting roles. Their movements were agile, and even their fixed features seemed imbued with expression through performance.
At one point, a sharp pain seared through Eric's right eye. She glimpsed a flicker of grey light trapped within a narrow puppet. She met something resembling eyes—and within them, endless fear and despair.
A chasm opened within her chest, and horror surged in, making it hard to breathe. Instinctively, she grasped the hand beside her.
Ximena turned, seeing Eric's face pale as death, her pupils dilated with shock. Ximena's heart sank. She wanted to ask what Eric's ghost eye had seen that left her so terrified.
But the surroundings were too jubilant. Cheers erupted all around as the townsfolk applauded the show. They were utterly out of place here.
She dared not speak, as if voicing the truth would shatter the fragile illusion of safety still clinging to the players.
And truthfully… she could guess. Ximena knew exactly what Eric's ghost eye could perceive. After witnessing the players turned into children, how could she not grasp the malicious essence of this instance?
The players' bodies had been overtaken by puppet spirits. Their souls, imprisoned within the very puppets they created.
And now, the instance had orchestrated this performance—a final reunion onstage.
Ximena bit down hard, jaw clenched tight.
The performance ended late into the night. As the crowd dispersed, a glowing portal silently appeared onstage.
"Enjoy the show?" The chief's face gleamed with undisguised malice under the spotlight. "The puppets you made turned out quite well. Their debut performance was a great success."
No one replied.
The players brushed past him, stepped onto the stage, and entered the circle of light.
**\[Player Eric has cleared the supernatural instance: *The Puppets*. Points gained: 44]**
In the mist-shrouded Wooden Puppet Village deep in the mountains, the sound of weeping drifted from a courtyard. An old woman, surrounded by her descendants, closed her eyes in peace. Her body decayed rapidly, reduced to bones and ash, which her family carefully scattered in the distant Wooden Puppet Forest.
"Will Grandma come back, like Uncle Tao's father did?"
"She will… someday… in time…"
The villagers left in solemn procession. The trees of the Wooden Puppet Forest swayed as if bidding farewell—and awaiting a return.
That night, a sudden downpour drenched the land. At dawn, a sapling broke through the soil at the forest's edge. Bathed in sun and moonlight, it quickly grew into a young tree… then a towering one.
One day, the instance reset. A new round of players, led by the mountain guide Dashan, climbed up to select their wood.
"Uncle Dashan, how do we choose the right puppet tree?"
The man, looking forty-something, still wore his familiar honest smile. "It's all about fate. Pick the one that calls to you. But don't waste any—we can't carry too many back."
"Oh!"
*
In the presidential suite, Eric lay motionless on the bed. The puppet instance had inflicted a deep psychological wound. She imagined being trapped inside a puppet's body, unable to escape, slowly losing herself to endless days of wooden performance—that despair alone could drown the soul.
"Ugh…" She rolled over, then again, burrowing deeper into the soft blankets for warmth.
It wasn't until the afternoon that she returned to the mission hall. But before she could even enter, two people came tumbling out in a brawl.
Fights were nothing new at the transfer station—high stress, constant danger—but Eric normally ignored them. She stepped aside, waiting for the scuffle to pass before going in.
Yet this fight escalated. One of the men refused to let go.
"Isn't that the leader of Crescent Society?"
"Which one? The guy throwing punches?"
"No, the one getting beaten!"
Maxwell tried to block the blows. He didn't want to escalate things, so he held back. But Vincent had snapped, lashing out with all his might. It was a struggle in appearance only—Vincent clearly held the upper hand.
"Enough!" Maxwell finally shouted as the crowd grew. "Have you lost your mind? I understand your grief, but this doesn't give you the right to attack me! If you don't stop, I will fight back!"
"Then do it! Fight me, you coward! I *want* you to fight—one of us isn't leaving alive today!"
Vincent's eyes burned red. Rage and sorrow poured from him like molten lava, consuming his reason and igniting a murderous intent.
"I'm going to kill you! You killed Lydia!"
"I told you—it was an accident! Come, let's go back to the hotel and talk—" Maxwell gripped Vincent hard, staring into his eyes. "Don't you remember? You and Lydia promised to resurrect together. Now she's gone. Are you going to throw that promise away? She worried about *you* the most! Will you let her down? Hate me if you must—but live! Earn the points, bring her back! That's the only way to truly honor her. Throwing tantrums is for the weak. Are you weak? Lydia hated weakness!"
The fury cracked, revealing a sliver of hesitation. But Lydia's death outweighed any promise. She was gone—what use were words now, except to twist the knife?
"You've got some nerve," Vincent growled, grabbing Maxwell's collar. "If it weren't for you always pushing her, telling her to keep up, she never would've agreed to go with you four—"
**Smack!**
A flash of steel crossed Maxwell's eyes. He had held back until now—but no more. He struck a sharp blow to the back of Vincent's neck.
Gasps erupted from the crowd. Eric frowned.
She'd knocked out NPCs before, sure—but another player? That was a different matter. A hit to the neck could be fatal if mishandled.
From the sickening sound alone, Eric winced. How much force had he used?
What had that young man said to make the usually composed older player snap like that?
*With the four of you…*
Where?
Four people?
Including Lydia, that made five. Five players—where had they gone? Lydia died, and now the survivor was blaming the leader?
In this endless cycle of escape and death, the most common—and fatal—place was the instance.
But everyone knew instances couldn't be entered in teams.
Eric's mind raced. She immediately connected the dots—to Justin, and the Mingyang Mutual Aid Society she had joined. The suite at 4666 could house five people. Justin had mentioned more than once his goal to gather five members.
Why such insistence on five?
Eric felt a chill. From this seemingly random scuffle, she may have uncovered the real reason behind Justin's haste to complete his team.
Her gaze sharpened as she quietly followed them.
She saw the older man drag the youth upstairs—to Room 4124.
Eric waited long, but the young man never emerged.
She memorized the room number and quietly turned away.