172: Ghost Market

Jingcheng, Xiangshan Villa District.

The midnight darkness at one in the morning was thick and unyielding like congealed ink.

The study light was off, leaving only a floor lamp for reading,

its dim circle of light enveloping the man half-reclining on the leather sofa.

The renowned director, Director Guo Changhe, held an extinguished cigar between his fingers, while his other hand gripped a tablet computer,

the screen still paused on the replay of the "Moyun Award."

The image was frozen at the exact moment Wang De'an uttered the line, "Those who ferry others do not reach the shore."

"Tsk."

Director Guo Changhe tossed the cigar into the ashtray,

letting out a long breath of stale air and rubbing his throbbing temples.

"Now that's someone who truly understands culture."

Having navigated the industry for thirty years, he had seen plenty of fights over a coveted main role position and grown tired of hypocrites who preached morality while engaging only in business behind closed doors.

Jian Shen's move tonight had completely stunned him.

By not showing up, not accepting the award, and leaving only a few simple sentences, he had made the traffic stars, who had sharpened their heads trying to squeeze onto the red carpet, look like a joke.

This level of composure made him, a worldly man, feel ashamed.

"Young people nowadays probably won't be able to write anything with this much backbone anymore."

Director Guo Changhe sighed, just about to turn off the tablet and go to sleep,

when the phone on the coffee table suddenly vibrated with a 'buzz'.

At this hour, the only person whose message could make his phone vibrate was someone he had set to 'Special Concern'.

Director Guo Changhe casually picked up his phone and glanced at the screen.

The next second, his eyes, which had been half-closed due to drowsiness, snapped wide open.

In the notification bar was an icon of a stark black skull.

【The author you follow, "Hell Dream Weaver," has published a new chapter for "soul ferry"】

"Heh, this guy finally decided to update."

A smile flickered across Director Guo Changhe's lips,

the melancholy of appreciating fellow literati instantly replaced by the excitement of watching a spectacle.

Although he specialized in serious dramas, in private, he was an absolute supernatural enthusiast.

He had followed this novel, "soul ferry," since its very first chapter,

the writing style that peeled back humanity layer by layer was exactly to his taste.

Especially the previous arcs involving "the fox immortals medicine" and "the senior sister in red," which had made his scalp tingle.

When he saw the new chapter title, his brow gradually furrowed.

—【The Ghost Market】

"The Ghost Market?"

Director Guo Changhe sat up straight, tapped the app, and the familiar chilling writing style rushed out from the screen.

This story wasn't about ghosts; it was about people.

An eighteenth-tier small-time actor who had spent ten years as an extra in Hengdian without achieving any recognition stumbled into a "Ghost Market" that only opened at midnight during a night shrouded in thick fog.

There, he met a stall owner whose face he couldn't clearly discern.

The stall owner didn't sell antiques or rare treasures; he sold only one thing.

"Light."

The kind of spotlight that could make someone the center of attention overnight.

The price, however, was the person's "shadow."

"Lose your shadow, and your spirit drifts away, rootless."

Director Guo Changhe muttered the lines from the book,

his fingers unconsciously sliding across the screen, growing more alarmed the further he read.

In the story, the actor ultimately succumbed to temptation and traded his shadow.

Afterward, he truly became famous.

Walking the red carpet, taking endorsements, the screams of his fans deafening.

All the spotlights shone on him, blindingly bright.

But when he returned home and stood before the mirror to remove his makeup, he discovered in horror

that beneath the glamorous facade in the mirror was nothing but an empty void.

And behind him, the shadow that should have followed him was gone.

Not just the physical shadow,

but also his joys and sorrows, his conscience, and his reverence for acting—all had been collected by the Ghost Market stall owner in that transaction.

He had become a perfect puppet who could only smile falsely for the camera.

"This!"

Fine beads of sweat had somehow appeared on Director Guo Changhe's temples.

He abruptly looked up at the still-lit tablet screen beside him.

On one side was the dazzling stage of the "Moyun Award," and Wang De'an's letter refusing the trophy.

On the other was the puppet actor in his phone, who sold his shadow for fame and fortune.

One side represented the clarity and resolve of "Those who ferry others do not reach the shore."

The other represented the greed and madness of "becoming a ghost just to reach the shore."

"This... this is too much of a coincidence, isn't it?"

Director Guo Changhe felt a chill shoot straight up from the soles of his feet to the crown of his head.

Jian Shen had just thrown a bucket of cold water on the world of awards tonight,

and this "Hell Dream Weaver" immediately followed up with a story about the Ghost Market,

presenting the bloody remnants of that cold water to everyone's faces.

How could this be writing a novel? This was clearly writing a prophecy!

"What kind of person is this Dream Weaver?"

Director Guo Changhe stood up and paced back and forth in the study,

re-lighting his cigar, its ember flickering uncertainly in the darkness.

If the previous stories about "beauty loans" and "suicide pacts" could still be dismissed as coincidence or drawn from news reports,

what about today's chapter?

This happened right after the awards ceremony!

This kind of sensitivity to current events, this satire so sharp it was almost cruel, was not something an online writer who only worked behind closed doors could possess.

Director Guo Changhe experienced an absurd illusion.

He seemed to see, at the glittering Moyun Award venue,

in some dark corner unnoticed by anyone, a pair of eyes coldly observing everything on stage.

Watching the hypocritical smiles, watching the ugly scramble for fame and profit.

Then that person turned and left, returned to their keyboard, and typed out this "Ghost Market" to mock this absurd world.

Director Guo Changhe took a fierce drag of his smoke, his eyes flashing with the light of a hunter spotting top-tier prey.

"If this script could be adapted into a series..."

As a director, his commercial instincts were always sharp.

The current market was oversaturated with sweet romance dramas and undermined by fake Xianxia shows.

What did the audience lack?

They lacked thrills, they lacked this kind of fierce boldness that dares to tear open the social fabric and show it to you!

"soul ferry," although some plots involve the supernatural and might face censorship issues,

but as long as the word 'ghost' was subtly changed—perhaps to psychological thriller or a parable about human nature—and released as a web series... this would absolutely be a guaranteed hit!

Director Guo Changhe stared at the black skull avatar on his phone, his finger hovering over the screen for a long time.

"It seems I need to find an opportunity to meet this 'Dream Weaver.'"

...Meanwhile, in Jiangcheng.

Lin Que watched the flood of comments sweep through the comment section.

He closed his laptop; with a soft 'click,' the screen's faint glow died, and the room returned to darkness.

He stretched, hearing the crisp sound of his spine popping.

"Hopefully, this will keep certain people awake tonight."

This chapter, "The Ghost Market," was not in the original novel.

It was an original chapter he wrote on a sudden impulse after receiving the notification for the Moyun Award.

Since Jian Shen already had the persona of an aloof hermit, the Dream Weaver should go even further, acting as the villain who rips open the wound.

Holding a trophy in the left hand and delivering a slap with the right.

Lin Que stood up and walked to the window.

Outside the window, Jiangcheng's night view was far less prosperous than Jingcheng's, with only scattered streetlights swaying in the wind.

He looked at his reflection in the glass.

A seventeen-year-old boy, wearing a somewhat childish cotton pajama set, his hair messy, looking completely harmless.

"In this strange and bewildering world,"

"I wish you all can keep your shadows.

"Have a good weekend!"

...