Chapter Sixty-Four: The Legend of Paper Crafting

Wang Feiyang nodded in agreement and then got up from his stool, saying, “I plan to go to the Triangle Monument today to find Yan Fei. When are you going back to school?”

I pondered for a moment, not wanting to linger in this place of sorrow any longer. “I’ll go with you for now,” I said. “Once you’re settled, I’ll return to school. It’s still before Spring Festival, and there’s plenty of time before classes resume.”

Wang Feiyang didn’t object. That afternoon, the two of us took a bus to the city, and by two o’clock, we found ourselves in front of a paper crafts shop at the Triangle Monument called “Flying General.”

I’d grown up on White Street, where nearly half the shops were in the funeral business. Honestly, this was the first time I’d seen a funeral shop with such a distinctive name.

But considering the owner’s name was Yan Fei, perhaps it wasn’t so unusual.

Wang Feiyang seemed to notice what I was thinking and explained, “This shop is called ‘Flying General’ not because the owner’s name is Yan Fei.”

“Then what is it?” I asked, puzzled.

He replied, “When I was young, my grandmother told me about the Flying General paper shop. Yan Fei is a remarkable figure in our trade, said to be the best paper craftsman in Bashu. There’s a strange story about this shop that goes back twenty years.”

I pressed him for the story.

Wang Feiyang continued, “The story is about how the shop got its name, but it’s not about Yan Fei—it’s about his father, Yan Yong.

Twenty years ago, Yan Yong’s reputation wasn’t as illustrious as Yan Fei’s is now, but in the surrounding region, his skills were unparalleled. It’s said his paper figures and horses were so lifelike, they seemed real.

In the nineties, the economy was reviving. With TVs and radios becoming common, people began to follow new trends. Yan Yong, though just a paper craftsman in his fifties, was quite trendy and had a sharp business mind. He brought these trends into the paper craft business.

While others stuck to traditional paper houses and horses, Yan Yong began making paper TVs, radios, even mobile phones. For a while, his business boomed, and other shops quickly followed suit.

Even with competition, Yan Yong’s skills kept his business thriving. But with more people sharing the profits, even the largest slice wasn’t enough for him. So he devised another scheme: making paper figures of living people.

If you provided a photo—celebrity or ordinary person—he’d craft a paper figure that looked exactly like the person. His skill was unmatched; the results were nearly indistinguishable from real people.

Isn’t it wicked, burning a paper likeness of a living person as an offering for the dead?

Neighbors said Yan Yong was disrespectful and would face retribution. But blinded by money, he didn’t care. As long as you paid, he’d do as you asked.

He made paper figures of living people for about half a year, earning a fortune. Then, one night, a man in a black Zhongshan suit, pale-faced, came to the shop, saying nothing. He handed Yan Yong a thick envelope.

For some reason, Yan Yong felt uneasy. He didn’t want to accept the job, but seeing the thickness of the envelope, he silently took it.

After the man left, Yan Yong opened the envelope and found several large bills inside. He was pleased, but when he saw the photo in the envelope, he was stunned.

The person in the photo was himself.

Although the man had left only money and a photo, with no instructions, Yan Yong sensed this job was meant for him—he couldn’t refuse.

The next day, Yan Yong crafted a paper figure of himself. As always, his skill was extraordinary. The paper figure was a perfect replica.

Staring at the figure, Yan Yong felt uneasy, praying the customer would come soon to collect it.

But a month passed, and the customer never returned.

Yan Yong dared not dismantle the figure, nor burn it. He avoided it, though customers to the shop marveled at the likeness and praised his business sense for making a model of himself.

Every time someone complimented him, Yan Yong felt a chill. On the forty-ninth day after finishing the figure, while working, he stepped on a rusty nail, piercing his left foot and causing him to fall.

That night, Yan Yong developed a fever and spoke deliriously, repeating an incomprehensible phrase: “Good and evil will be repaid, the heavens turn in cycles; look up and see—has the sky ever spared anyone?”

He didn’t live to see the next morning. Before he died, he told his son, Yan Fei, that to make the figure less like himself, he’d secretly marked a red mole with cinnabar on the sole of the left foot.

After hearing Wang Feiyang’s story, a chill crept over me, but I was also puzzled. “This tale shows the Yan family’s incredible skill, able to create figures indistinguishable from real people. From your description, the client was likely a spirit emissary. Yan Yong got what he deserved, but what does any of this have to do with the Flying General?”

Wang Feiyang answered, “It’s closely related. Yan Fei’s father lost his life because of a mole on his foot. Later, Yan Fei’s paper craft skills became exceptional, and legend has it that his genuine spirit offerings hover three feet above the ground—they can fly!”

I drew a sharp breath. “Is it really that uncanny?”

Wang Feiyang shot me a look of disdain. “After all you’ve been through, do you still find this strange? It’s probably Yan Fei’s own warning to himself—not to be seduced by money and repeat his father’s mistakes.

You know, the strongest technique in our trade is folding paper into soldiers. Paper craftsmen are often called ‘Generals on Paper.’ That’s how the Flying General shop got its name. Over time, Yan Fei became known among those in the trade as the Flying General.”

I nodded, growing curious about this renowned craftsman. As we entered the shop, we saw a middle-aged man in a green military coat and liberation shoes, about forty years old, crafting a three-story paper house.

His attire was that of a rural elder going to the fields, and it was hard to associate him with the famous Flying General, Yan Fei.

“Excuse me, are you Yan Fei—Master Yan?” Wang Feiyang, usually cold to everyone, was surprisingly polite, respectfully addressing the man.

The man put his work aside, looked up at us with a smile, and said, “That’s me. Are you here for a spirit house?”

Before I could reply, Wang Feiyang suddenly knelt with a thud, bowing three times to Yan Fei. His gesture startled me, and Yan Fei’s smile faded, his brow furrowing.

“Young man, I haven’t taken a disciple in over ten years. Why show such courtesy upon arrival?” Yan Fei said, then promptly dismissed us. “I swore never to take another disciple. Please leave.”

Wang Feiyang remained kneeling. I stood there, bewildered. Then Wang Feiyang took out a book from his coat and held it aloft. “Master Yan, my grandfather was Wang Bilin. He told me that if I brought this ‘Art of Folding Paper into Soldiers’ here to find you, you would surely make an exception and take me as your disciple!”

I was confused—when had Wang Bilin told him this? Could it have been in a dream? But Wang Bilin’s soul had long been scattered in the City of Unjust Deaths.

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